Standing at the Grave
by peridxt
Summary: Lestrade didn't go to the funeral. John hated him now, and he just didn't want to watch. Unrequited Sherstrade.
Lestrade didn't go to the funeral. John hated him now, and he just didn't want to watch.

He went to Sherlock's the day after. He stood in front of the grave, silent. He fished out a pack of cigarettes and stuck one in his mouth. He hesitated, and pulled out another. He slipped the pack back in his coat pocket. He lit both, putting one on his lips and holding the other gingerly between his fingers. He stood like that for a long while, the smoke wisping into nonexistence in the grey-blue sky.

He sighed, breathing out a lungful of poison.

"Might as well get some closure," He muttered absently, switching the cigarettes so the one in his hand was in his mouth and visa-versa. He took a deep breath and took a drag before starting his speech.

"So. Here we are. Me, a disgraced DI with a smoking and drinking problem. And you... dead. Always thought it'd be from drugs, or maybe one of your villians you chase after so recklessly. Never imagined you'd jump. But then, I guess you never really know someone." He paused to take another long drag. Then he continued with his narrative.

"When we met you where pretty pathetic. It was obvious it wasn't just cocaine, but I guess I didn't really want to know. I was scared to ask, frankly. And you continued to scare me, you know. You would be with me for a day, and then disappear for a week. Everytime I was anxious because I didn't know when you'd be back, if at all, and what state you'd be in. Bloody hell Sherlock, I thought the next time I found you, you'd be face down in a ditch, dead and with a rusty syringe stuck in your arm. Goddammit, Sherlock, I-" He stopped abruptly midsentence, voice thick, like he was about to sob. He sucked on one of his cigarettes, blinking back tears.

"Sorry, sunshine. That bit's coming in later. Too soon right now." He paused, letting himself recover. He wasn't in a hurry. He chuckled slightly as he started again.

"The real clincher is that after that was over, once you where clean (and I mean _really_ clean, Sherlock), I thought I wouldn't have to worry anymore. I thought I wouldn't be haunted by the fact that you could be dying whenever you weren't _there_. Boy, was I wrong. Instead of drugs you got a new dangerous addiction. Chasing killers." Lestrade broke off and shook his head, exasperated, a slight smile playing on his lips. "You never where one to be _safe_ , where you, Sherlock?" He heaved a sigh and looked wistfully off into the trees.

"Even so, I couldn't help but be fascinated with you. Being able to say such big things from little details and be _right_...It was brilliant. But it wasn't just that. How you where able to bounce back from anything. And you where always totally collected and _in control_ and unruffled, even if that meant you acted like a right bastard most of the time. There are other things too, too many to say. I don't have the time. There was also the way you looked. You haven't aged a day past eighteen sunshine. If your personality wasn't so antisocial, you could have anyone you wanted. You probably could anyway," Lestrade chuckled slightly. He closed his eyes and hummed contentedly. "Oh but you where gorgeous," he purred appreciatively, "Flouncing about in that great big flappy coat of yours; complete with scarf. You always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic, don't deny it. I didn't really mind." He smiled and looked up at the sky, watching the trails of smoke from his cigarette dissipate. "Mm, sunshine, I wonder if you realized the effect you have on people. Once someone meets you, it's impossible for them to forget. No matter what any one thinks of you, they have to agree that you do make an impression." Lestrade watched the cloudless sky thoughtfully, tasting his cigarette. "I loved you, ya know. I loved you the whole time. But I was always content to just be 'that idiot DI from the Yard that got me cases'. I may not have been anything important, or anything that really _meant_ anything to you at all, but at least I was _something_. It was enough just to be near you. To be a part of your life, no matter how small. I was like a moth to flame. You where an addiction. I couldn't stay away. But bloody hell, for all the things you see, you're oblivious to the most important ones. Donovan came to me to give me a lecture on how I would only get hurt if I kept going on like this. Well, she was right, wasn't she? But that means she saw something you didn't, Sherlock. And it was the only thing that counted. Anderson dissaproved as well, but didn't dare try to convince me to give up. If Sally couldn't no one could.

"But you know what really cut me?" Lestrade's voice became unsteady, edged with some intense emotion. "That John Watson character. You meet him Tuesday and you're in each other's _pockets_ by Wednesday. It was so obvious, the trust you put in him. How deep your connection ran. And that, that was something I would never have. God, it hurt. Unrequited love is a real bitch. 'Specially when there's someone like Doctor Watson involved. It may be sick, but even though I'm furious at you and wish you where alive and so depressed that you're dead, I'm kind of glad you died. At least now I won't have to hurt anymore. Well, not in the same way.

"I may lose my job, my only friends, my team, my life's work, my _life_ dammit, because of my association with you. Actually, it's a certainty. But still, it was worth every second. I have my share of regrets, and I'm sure you have yours, but you're not one of mine. The only regret I have with you is I wasn't able to tell you all this before you where dead." He ended his speech there, dropping the cigarettes on the grass, crushing it under his shoe. He turned and walked away, his shoulder and said,

"Ta, sunshine."


End file.
